


Adventures of a Mer-Chaser: Turnabout is Better Than Fair

by DirtyScrolls



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Come Marking, Fantastic Racism, Gags, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Groping, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Punishment, Rape With Object, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Some Plot, Submission, Teasing, Threesome - M/M/M, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25760638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyScrolls/pseuds/DirtyScrolls
Summary: An attempt to give the Dragonborn what he deserves.
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ambarys Rendar, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Malthyr Elenil, Malthyr Elenil/Ambarys Rendar
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35
Collections: Adventures of a Mer-Chaser: The Dragonborn and the Grey Quarter





	Adventures of a Mer-Chaser: Turnabout is Better Than Fair

Kordin was cold; that was the first thing he became aware of. The second was the constriction of the thick leather thongs binding his wrists behind him and wrapped tightly around his ankles. Then there was the rough gag shoved deep into his mouth, stretching the corners of his lips. Shouts were out of the question. 

Except for the plain band of Namira’s ring (which, he guessed, didn’t look valuable, as caked in dark grime as it was), he was naked from head to toe, lying on his side on a fur bedroll, somewhere dim and chilly. 

His last memory was of walking away from Windhelm on a cool night, having just completed a day of regular business there. This time, his schedule hadn’t allowed for any prolonged indulgences in the Grey Quarter. He had sold a few trinkets at Sadri’s Used Wares, staring down his recent unwilling conquest, just to watch the man flinch, blush, and avert his eyes. 

He had been hurrying back to Whiterun and the pleasures of Teldryn Sero when this—whatever it was--had happened.

Now, he was in what appeared to be a cave, going by the damp atmosphere and what little he could see in the scattered light of several lanterns placed around on the ground. He could hear people speaking in low voices somewhere off to his left. At least two men, silhouetted by a firelit entryway. 

Bandits? If so, why and how had they taken him prisoner? Were they planning to hold him for ransom? Did they even know who he was? 

He tried to breathe deeply around the gag, knowing it was essential to keep a cool head.

“I hear him moving,” Malthyr Elenil told his lover softly, resting a hand on Ambarys Rendar’s shoulder. “Or trying to. You still want to go through with this?”

“Why in Oblivion shouldn’t we?” Ambarys gave a twisted smile as he held the Nord’s Daedric dagger in his hand, admiring the expertly-crafted weapon. “He deserves this and worse.”

“You’re right about that, of course,” Malthyr conceded, for what felt like the dozenth time. He picked up the bottle of flin from the ground next to them, drank, passed it to Ambarys. 

His lover accepted the bottle, finished off the last of it. Then he kissed Malthyr on the mouth, sharing the taste. His eyes glittered.

“Come on. We’re doing the whole Quarter a favor by putting him in his place.”

“I—just—look, Ambarys, he’s an important man. I’m still worried--what if there’s retaliation?”

“I’ll fucking kill him if I see him again. And do you think he’s going to tell his friends he let himself get kidnapped by a couple of lowly Dunmer and—you can’t be serious, can you?”

“Doesn’t this make us just as bad?” 

“We’ve been over all of this. The gods-damned Nord raped me, almost raped you, raped Revyn, and I’m supposed to—the trouble is we don’t take revenge on them often enough. Disgusting savages. The trouble is no one in the Quarter’s willing to stand up--”

“OK, OK,” Malthyr said, stroking Ambarys’s cheek to cut off yet another rant. “We’ll do it.”

Ambarys’s bitterness had deepened since the night Malthyr had found him tethered to their bed, furious and violated. His usual anger at Windhelm’s Nords had begun threatening to boil over. 

Then, after a few weeks, their friend and regular customer Revyn Sadri had shuffled into the cornerclub one cold night and stayed until closing, looking drawn and tired, his neck covered in mysterious marks, like he’d been attacked by a vampire—and, briefly, Malthyr worried that he had. Revyn had been unusually quiet, downing greef and sujamma like he was trying to poison himself. Warning them to keep clear of Thane Kordin, the man the Nords called Dragonborn, and a hero. 

After a few late drinks and some careful inquiries, he had told them what the Nord had done to him that day, speaking in a whisper. He was at a loss, and terrified the man might come back. Revyn could hold his own against a mundane thief, but he was no warrior. No match for someone called ‘Dragonborn’, anyway.

Not knowing what to do, they had poured their distraught friend a little more sujamma to calm him, then given him ash yam and horker stew and offered to let him stay the night at the cornerclub, so he wouldn’t be alone in his shop. 

Every so often during that long evening, Ambarys would get up and pace, almost knocking things over, cursing and murmuring to himself about arrogant Nord bastards who thought they owned the city and everyone in it. 

As he and Malthyr huddled in their small bed, Ambarys had broached the subject of a very particular flavor of revenge, of a punishment that truly fit the crime. 

Revyn was wrapped in a bedroll down on the second level, limp from liquor and exhaustion. 

“I got a good look at him, Malthyr, and he’s—well--this’ll sound odd, but he’s really quite appealing, physically. For a Nord, of course. It’s gotten me thinking.”

Malthyr must have looked taken aback. He was, for many reasons.

“He did it to me,” Ambarys snapped, eyes glinting. “Just took me because he wanted it. Why not return the favor? He won’t tell anyone, he’ll be too ashamed.”

“How in Oblivion--” 

“We’ll just wait till next time this Dragonborn shows up alone in town and follow him when he leaves. It’ll be expensive, but I can get something from one of the caravans that’ll knock him out with one knife-stick--”

“We aren’t—this is dangerous. And absurd. By Azura, we’re not fucking criminals, we’re not rapists. We’re both decent, civilized men. Nothing like him.”

“Where has being decent and civilized gotten us?”

Malthyr had had no answer.

And so now here they were, enacting Ambarys’s mad plan.

“Let’s go,” Ambarys said, taking Malthyr’s arm with one hand and casting a candlelight spell with the other. 

They entered the dark tunnel that led to the long-unused cave they had scouted out earlier. It was not the driest or most comfortable place in Skyrim, but it was well-hidden and large enough for their needs. 

Inside, the naked Nord was facing away from them, struggling to free his wrists, the muscles in his arms and back straining. Malthyr had to admit there was certainly something, as Ambarys had put it, “appealing” about the Nord, especially trussed and squirming like this, unable to harm them. Arousal began to stir deep inside of Malthyr, through all his misgivings.

The bound man was somewhere in his thirties, with strong symmetrical features, thick hair held back with a few braids, and bright, fair coloring. He looked like he could find willing bed-partners anywhere he went, yet he’d taken Ambarys and Revyn by force. 

Why? Why did he think he had that right?

When he heard them, the Nord tried to yell something through the gag. 

Ambarys walked up and used one booted foot to turn the well-built man onto his back so that his weight pressed on his bound arms. The Nord’s rugged, handsome face was reddening with his efforts to escape, his hair in sweaty disarray. 

Ice-blue eyes flashed with anger and frustration, then widened as he recognized the two mer.

Ambarys kicked their captive hard in his muscular abdomen. The Nord grunted around his gag and screwed his eyes shut in sudden pain. Ambarys kicked him again, making him writhe and double onto his side. 

He showed him the Daedric weapon.

“You recognize this, I guess?”

The Nord nodded, his expression blank. His lips were very pink around the gag. Malthyr remembered how lush they had looked without the cloth in, while they were hurriedly binding him.

“Well, I won’t hesitate to split you open with it. I think I’d even enjoy it. Are we clear?”

He nodded again, his gaze now glued to the dagger in his captor’s hand. Ambarys met his eyes pointedly, then sheathed it.

Malthyr was surprised at how dangerous his Ambarys seemed just now. By how easily excited he himself had become, at the entire situation.

“Let’s have a closer look at what we’ve got here,” Ambarys said.

The two Dunmer squatted beside the Nord, taking in every inch of his exposed body. They ran their eyes and hands over his broad chest, honed thighs and arms, along the soft prick nestled in his golden pubic hair. He looked past them at the cave entrance.

Ambarys and Malthyr exchanged a glance.

“Turn him over,” Malthyr heard himself say.

Ambarys stood again and used his foot to shove Kordin onto his side, revealing a nicely-sculpted back and a very fine set of thick buttocks. Then he sank down beside Malthyr and kissed his lover’s ear.

“Look at that ass. It’s all ours to play with. He’s our toy. You hear that, you Nord slut?”

He didn’t get a response from Kordin, not even a sound.

Ambarys ran a hand over the Nord’s round rump. He pinched him, digging his short nails into the pert flesh. Malthyr followed his lead, exploring the Nord’s ass with an appreciative hand, testing its firmness and scratching the smooth pale skin lightly. He had never fucked a Nord before, but now he wondered how it would feel to have this white muscled flesh wrapped around his cock. 

“Glad you’re warming to the whole idea,” Ambarys said in a low voice.

“Well.” Malthyr shrugged, looking away. “He really does deserve it.”

They turned their attention to the backs of Kordin’s powerful thighs, sliding their hands over the skin, kneading his muscles, pinching him to leave marks. Ambarys slapped the man’s flank sharply, watching a patch of ivory skin turn scarlet. Kordin grunted softly.

“Isn’t that pretty?” Ambarys remarked, massaging where he’d slapped. “How red he gets?”

Four rough grey hands pawing him. Two handsome mer taking over his body, talking about him like he wasn’t there, handling him like an object. The tough bonds restraining him, leaving him open to anything they wanted to do.

It was too much to bear. In spite of all his mental efforts to keep at least some of his dignity, Kordin was quickly beginning to get an erection.

“By the Three,” gasped the grey-skin named Malthyr, “He fucking likes it.” 

The mer laughed low in his throat. 

“Such a filthy thing,” said Rendar, in his wonderfully rough voice. 

Rendar’s thin fingers encircled Kordin’s stiffening member teasingly, and Kordin felt shuddery involuntary pleasure as the elf stroked him from base to tip.

“He’ll come while I’m fucking his ass, if at all,” Rendar said firmly, giving the Nord’s prick a dismissive smack that felt both jarring and delicious.

Kordin knew he must be blushing fiercely. His whole body had gone hot and his skin tingled, covered with gooseflesh.

Rendar threaded his fine hand into Kordin’s hair and pulled hard, sending a lightning thrill through the Nord’s body. Then he bent to mockingly kiss his gag-stretched lips. 

He sat up and touched the other mer’s arm. “Can you get me the oil?”

“Happily.”

Together, they positioned the Nord on his knees, shoulders and head down. Even as the muscular blond was shoved into place on the bedroll, his thick, pink cock stood hard against his flat abdomen.

Ambarys laughed, slapping Kordin’s plump upraised ass and giving it a sharp pinch. 

“Dirty barbarian whore.” 

Malthyr was puzzled when Ambarys took the sheathed dagger from his belt, but he nodded his approval when he saw his lover rub the oil he’d brought him around both his fingers and the ornate hilt. 

“Wonder how he’ll like this,” Ambarys said, his voice gleeful. 

His first two, then three, fingers disappeared smoothly inside the Nord’s deep cleft, causing muffled moans around the gag. He used his other hand to pull aside one firm cheek and show Malthyr the ridged pale pink hole eating up his slim fingers. The Nord growled, and it sounded impatient.

“Oh, maybe you want something bigger,” taunted Ambarys, grinning. 

He took up the lubricated dagger, held the Nord’s thick ass open, and worked the end of the hilt into the rosy, oil-moistened pucker. The Nord made a noise of loud but distorted discomfort. As Ambarys steadily fed the slick dagger-hilt into his passage, Malthyr watched closely, fascinated and turned on. 

Cords stood out on the blond man’s neck and he ground his teeth into the gag. His face was red. The gag was damp with drool, and it trickled down the Nord’s full pink lips. Malthyr imagined what it would be like to fuck him in the mouth.

Smiling a beautiful sadistic smile Malthyr wasn’t sure whether he’d like to see again, Ambarys began to move the hilt vigorously in and out of the Dragonborn’s helpless ass. At the same time, he used his fingertips to prod and tease round the man’s stretched ring. 

Malthyr took out his hard prick and continued to watch as he stroked himself. The Dragonborn’s cheek was pressed against the bedroll and his buttocks raised up high, legs spread as much as he could manage. He pressed back against the dagger-hilt. He was making the most delightfully obscene sounds through the wet cloth in his mouth.

“Come on his face when you’re ready,” smirked Ambarys, twisting the hilt. 

The Nord writhed and arched his back up into it. 

Ambarys hissed, smacked Kordin’s ass, leaving another bright mark on the pale skin. 

“Gods, you really do fucking love this, don’t you?” he laughed, almost amazed.

Kordin had never felt anything like the dagger-hilt before. Far stiffer than flesh, it made his hole burn viciously. He’d have to try it on some lucky mer, if he found a way out of here. For now, he was too overcome by his interesting situation to think much of the future. 

What he desperately wanted was for Rendar to fuck him with his cock; he was half-ashamed and half-excited to realize that he would have begged the grey-skin to do it, if he could talk.

For now, all he could do was dip his back and offer his ass, and let Rendar and his friend torment him as they saw fit.

“I’m gonna fuck him,” Ambarys said finally, removing the hilt from the Nord’s hole with a muted wet pop.

Malthyr watched in anticipation as his eager lover opened his pants and lined himself up behind the Nord’s already well-violated ass. Ambarys entered the Nord with a determined thrust. The blond made some kind of deep rough noise, but Ambarys ignored it and began to rail him.

It was relentless and uncaring, nothing like the focused way Ambarys and Malthyr usually penetrated one another. They weren’t often gentle, but they always fucked each other with the intent of giving and getting pleasure. 

What Ambarys did to the Nord was for Ambarys alone. He gripped Kordin’s trim hips hard and used his ass as if the man attached to it had no ability to feel. Malthyr increased his own rhythm as he masturbated, picturing himself in Ambarys’s position, staring down at the broad sweaty pale back and watching his lover’s shaft move rapidly in and out of the pink hole.

Ambarys stroked and tugged on the sweat-dampened blond hair. He yanked the snarled locks as he came, after several obviously blissful minutes of pounding the Nord. Malthyr could tell his lover had come by the almost hurt look on his face, a look he knew and cherished. And Ambarys slammed his hips forward, as if to shoot as much cream inside Kordin as possible. There was indeed a lot, enough to leak from the hole and down the Nord’s inner thigh after Ambarys pulled out. Kordin fell onto his side as Ambarys let go of him.

Now Malthyr was reaching his own climax, so he aimed his cock at the Dragonborn’s face, getting long spurts and droplets on his mouth, across his eyelids, and in the messy braided blond hair. 

Next thing he knew, Ambarys’s warm arms were around him, his greedy lips against his throat. 

“Your turn, when you’re ready,” Ambarys said, smiling lewdly at the Nord’s blushing, come-covered face, then raking his gaze down his heaving body to the dripping, unsatisfied cock. “He can take more. He might like it now, but let’s see if that changes after he takes it all night.”

Kordin woke up again many hours later, free, naked, and able to move only stiffly. 

His wrists and ankles were chafed, the corners of his mouth sore, his skin bruised and welted. His asshole was stretched and raw and come-encrusted. In fact, he was streaked all over with dried elf seed. 

His pubic hair was stiff with his own ejaculate, too. He had come twice—once while Malthyr aggressively fucked him, and once more as Ambarys Rendar used the dagger-hilt on him a second time, reaming him so hard he thought he might bleed. 

Then—he remembered with deep, hot, acute embarrassment--he’d tried to rub himself off against the bedroll when they decided to take turns beating him with the buckle end of Rendar’s belt. Gods, the sting had been... well, he could see now why Sero loved it so much. The two mer had taunted him for his pathetic efforts to gain relief, calling him a slut, a degenerate savage. Which was exactly how he’d felt. Even as he tried and failed to make himself come, each of his captors had shot his own orgasm in warm spurts over Kordin’s whipped back and ass. 

In the end they left him stained, hard, squirming, and exquisitely miserable, while they rifled through his things for valuables. He’d been glad to eventually lose consciousness. 

Kordin was filled with a heady rush of stimulating shame at how he had enjoyed the abuse, had wordlessly begged for all of it. Had he not been so exhausted, he might have felt the need to jerk off. 

Feeling around in his traveling pack for something to cover himself with, he found nothing but a tunic and a stray bottle of Black-Briar mead at the bottom. He shook out the wrinkled, come-stained tunic. The grey bastards had used it to clean themselves. 

He further considered the situation, mentally counting the cost of all his stolen items—a lot by most standards, not very much to him. 

Other rich men paid high-class whores dearly for just an hour of the treatment he’d spent an entire night receiving—at the hands of not one, but two pretty Dunmer. And (to the obvious chagrin of said pretty Dunmer) he had managed to relish every second of it. 

Some itch in him felt thoroughly scratched.

All in all, however, he thought he might take Rendar’s parting advice and avoid the Grey Quarter--for now. These two mer were clearly cunning and capable of organizing against him, and he might not like whatever they came up with next. 

Besides, he wasn’t sure he could look either in the eye again, ever, after the way they’d seen him. 

Kordin opened the mead and cursed his carelessness in letting them get the drop on him. Windhelm, that freezing shithole of Skyrim, had nothing to recommend it except the easy source of Elven entertainment, and he’d cheated himself out of it. 

He dressed slowly in the soiled tunic, picked his lightened bag up, took several deep drinks of the mead, and walked gingerly outside.


End file.
